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Thursday, November 08, 2012

HOME (The Runaway--XXI)

WHEN
THE BUS DRIVER DROPPED JOSH OFF at the foot of the drive to the farm, the sun
hung low, just touching purple mountains. Two signs, neat and hand-carved from
wood, swung from the mailbox: Oglala Clay Works and, below, Anselm Guitar and
Repair. The drive twisted ahead, hard packed dirt through knee-high yellow grain
that went forever.

Josh
walked for almost fifteen minutes, more than a mile, through wheat that rustled
in a breeze Josh did not feel. Patches of uncultivated meadow interrupted the
wheat, splotches of green wild with daisies and Queen Anne’s lace. He turned a
corner and there it was, the white two-story house he had only seen in photographs.
A covered porch wrapped around the side. Smoke smudged the sky from behind the
house. In the center of the small front lawn, a weeping birch tree with round,
black stones circled the base. Two rocking chairs set on the porch, and between
them, on a table, a glass pitcher glistened with water droplets. When Josh saw
the pitcher, he realized how thirsty he was, and how hungry.

A
sheepdog ran towards him, soft yelps of greeting. Josh squatted and offered his
hand and the puppy sniffed him before bounding away.

Beside
the house was a shed of grey withered timbers. A low ramp led to a wide door cut
into the side. Wood shavings curled at the threshold, on the ramp and grass.
Josh stepped into the dark room and inhaled the punky richness of wood just
cut. Guitars hung from hooks in the wall. Two instruments covered the long
table, surrounded by thin pieces of different colored wood and slices of
mother-of-pearl. The afternoon sun slanted through the open door and dust floated
in the warm air, sparkling. The room felt familiar, someplace he had been
before or wanted to be. A radio played, muffled, an overtone of static, and
something in Josh’s chest tightened.

Smoke
billowed past Josh. He left the shed, passing cords of wood stacked higher than
him against the outside wall. A woman bent over a smoking pit. She was tiny and
slight and her long black hair was pulled back in a single fat braid. She
prodded a long metal rod into the pit and orange-tinged ashes danced in the
smoke. Beside her, a man in a wheelchair, his back to Josh. All Josh saw was
the back of his uncle Jeremiah's, golden-brown curls that fell over his shoulder. The puppy
ran past them, chasing some imaginary prey, and the woman looked up and turned
sideways, her belly swollen, round and hard like a nut. Without moving, she nodded.

The
man wheeled around. All Josh saw was the missing leg, gone from above the knee.

“Hey
buddy,” his uncle said. “We’ve all been so worried about you.”

Josh
looked up, past that hole in his uncle’s body to the smile, broad the way he
remembered, and the arms opened wide. Josh stepped toward him, then ran to the
man so big, so strong, and for the first time since he and Nikko left Maryland a
lifetime ago, Josh let himself cry.

So, the end of THE RUNAWAY. At last. Of course, revision is next, but only after I have written the others' stories. For a peek into Jeremiah's story, go HERE. As for that mysterious woman stirring up ashes, her Christian name is Sheila, but among her Oglala Lakota tribespeople she is called Maka Proud Tree. I'm writing her now, as part of my annual NaNoWriMo adventure.

Thank you kind readers--I always appreciate you taking the time to care about my stories and, most of all, my characters. Peace...

5 comments:

Thank goodness for the happy ending! I was so hopeful for Josh but I didn't want to be to optimistic. It's bittersweet because he lost Nikko but he's at least in a place where he's loved and sheltered and cared for.

I am glad to hear about the others' stories. Like so many endings there are too many gaps in this one for me to feel completely comfortable. The stories of Jeremiah and Maka Proud Tree will help. And I love that Josh is at last able to weep. Tears of at least partial healing. I am very grateful indeed that you have shared this with us. Thank you.

A nerve on fire...

Where I Hang

About Me...

By day, I'm an uptight and proper academic - you know, a publish or perish type who resides in tall towers with the likes of Rapunzul. In the evening, I morph into a lovable mom and wife, play with my children, hang with the hubby.
But when darkness falls and the house stills, I write.